


Get Me Out of This Shithole

by orphan_account



Series: British Hamsandwich Spy AU [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: ANIME-ESQUE I APOLOGIZE BUT AT THE SAME TIME I CANT, AU, Alex is slightly cannibalistic but it's for good reason i promise, BAMF Alex, George makes one shitty pickup line btw, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, aLSO THE FIGHT SCENE IS SO, not much romance rn, the one where Alex is a British spy, the pickup line i mean, this is like the prologue to the story so, why n Ot, you might cringe bc it's rlly fucking lame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I apologize, but I think you're more destructive than that hurricane because all you needed to do was look at me and I am dead at your feet," George kneels, taking Alex's hand and kissing it gently. Alexander flushes a brighter red than the newer splotches dying his clothing but is still too shocked to do anything. He watches the other stand up from the ground, and feels the weight of hands placing itself onto his shoulders despite the massacre behind them, "Come with me back to Britain, I'll take better care of you than anyone else."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A citric fruit](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=A+citric+fruit).



> italics is French.
> 
> quotation marks + italics is writing.
> 
> that's it.

The hurricane came when Alex was 14, during a time where the young boy was still grappling with the fact that his mother had left his side. Every action, word, and desire stemming directly from his anger at the world; because how come he recovers and his mother dies? How come his failure of a father gets to breathe freely while his brother struggles to even open his mouth while they work? How come _he_ survives the hurricane, but nobody else does?

All he knows is that the people around him were crushed by rubble.

When Alex had first woken up, he had been tossed onto a roof, two pieces of a broken wall forming a tent over him. To anyone that had woken up earlier than he did, it looked as though the buildings had dragged life into its nonexistent form and stretched out its hands in an attempt to protect the remaining Hamilton. And yet, Alex had never been so ungrateful for something that kept him alive. He'd shout that from the rooftops if he needed to; Alex strongly wanted to die with the requiem of all the crushed, mangled and drowned out bodies that threw splotches of red paint onto the remains of Charlestown.

Maybe it was because he had been so heartbroken realizing he had lost his coworkers to the storm, or the fact that he is sick of the concept of death when he saw his brother's scarf on the floor, hell, maybe it's his 6 feet deep drive to prove the world that he can push through, that he stubbornly rose up from the ashes every morning, despite the hands of the void offering its comfort to him if he'd just _stay down_.

Every single morning the dead eyes of rotting corpses stayed glued to his body as he wandered, feet tiredly digging into the mud at the bottom of a shallow puddle as his hands were wrapped around a moderately sized crate. Every morning, Alex's eyes became more adapted to picking out smaller details just in case it was something he might need, he was growing up in a horrible environment but nobody would care.

Sometimes he'd find people, sometimes. When he does, though, their mind would often be gone with the loss of people they care for and they'd charge straight at Alex with a rock. The first time it happened he had been caught off guard, and the rock had scratched through his shirt. There's a 'V' shaped scar formed by two deep cuts a few inches right from his belly button. Alex enjoys looking back to those days where he had been pathetic enough to let that happen. Nowadays people have the honor of bleeding out if they even dare to cross his path.

Ruthless he is, but if he wasn't then he wouldn't have survived this long. People would've robbed him of his things, leaving Alex empty handed. Dead, if the people are equally ruthless.

_"If I do not end their life, then they'll crawl back into their pile of dirt and grow a tree of absolute hatred. Keep in mind, the people here want to survive and their minds have been starved of common sense. The hurricane that robbed away people of their lives, robbed away people's civility as well. I pass by where the harbor used to be and I see a crowd of people screaming, shouting, crying for their lives in hopes of some saint coming to rescue them every day. Although I have not given up hope, I do not think hope will come to us that easily."_

He writes on the pieces of paper he can find in such a wasteland, then dives into his many crates to pull out a rusty needle and some thread that had been sticking out from corpses' clothing. Alex sews together the papers whenever it reaches beyond the maximum of 120 pages, writes a title on a blank piece and sews that with it.

He writes books on how he's survived.

He keeps track of every single day in order to maintain sanity.

Alex is okay living the way he is because he is still alive, he gives the sane people hope by marching into their lives then leaving an imprint behind made purely of a few warning words.

"I'm going to get out of here, with or without help." He growls, lips playing a snarl, eyes glinting sharper than broken glass. At first, the person he's speaking to stares at him blankly, a sincere show of astonishment appearing on their face due to the fact that they thought he had been joking, but then Alex's stare does not waver and their minds frame the sight of his unrelenting determination. It brings them hope to witness such a force in a time like this.

A desperate force breathing nothing except the need to escape: Alexander Hamilton.

And then, 'hope' arrived. Well, as close as 'hope' can be defined when it came to this egotistically dressed prick that looks no _older than he does_.

A few ships had appeared over the blue horizon, the size and amount he predicted would be carrying possibly over two hundred to maybe three hundred soldiers. Alex kept distance, delving further into Charlestown as he watched it grow closer until it disappeared at the bay, then Alexander threw himself back into his fort. If they had a telescope like he does, then he does not want them to catch the sight of a young, scrappy, and hungry 14-year-old strolling the grounds like a cat in its home.

Although, there were times he'd be out looking for more supplies, and footsteps would come and Alex's presence would vanish. But when the moment came that he decided to count the soldiers in a closer range, he assumed they had separated into smaller groups, because there were only around thirty to fifty left scouring through Charlestown. Alex snickered at their stupidity while observing these men traverse carelessly across the moss and patches of grass that grew over the broken buildings. 

And then this guy in a _powdered white wig wearing a crown on his head and a fluffy-looking 'blanket' draped onto his shoulders_ , shows up and a laugh threatens to make itself known from where Alex hid. Who is this man and why is he dressed like his life matters on a wasteland where none does?

King George, he had introduced himself to the silence. Ah, _King_ George. No wonder; Alexander Hamilton, _your highness_ , he had responded quietly and sarcastically underneath his breath.

He watched them move closer to where he was, noting that the guards that George had brought along with him kept close but not too close, and the space that each guard placed in between themselves would be a big enough opening for him to pounce. They marched to where he was, and unexpectedly, he had been _spotted_. King George seemed to have been standing at a spot capable of determining where the light had shone upon. Alex bit his lip to force back a curse, his hand had been lying in the sun unknowingly, and that costed him his secrecy.

George grinned as though he had discovered something interested. Well, Alex wouldn't blame him, he _was_ a pretty interesting person.

"Men, I think there might be someone under here. Alive or not do be careful," and Alex just _freezes_ , that was _really attractive accent like wow he feels less compelled to murder the guy already_.

Regardless, that thought is thrown out of his head as instincts roar at every single particle in his body to prepare themselves for a battle, and Alex's other hand that is not on the ground swipes the rusted and dangerously sharp knife in the back of his pocket. His breath drops to reduce the noise, dark cinnamon brown eyes narrow to squint past the many hands reaching to lift the rock that acts as a roof for his home, then he thinks.

_One two three four five six s -_

The soldiers hurriedly flip the rock right before seven. Alex doesn't flinch, eyes swiping left to right to count a total of sixteen imbeciles that dare disturb him. The hand resting on the floor scoops up a handful of sand, throwing it in front of him to mask his actions and allowing him to smoothly wrap his fingers around one musket pointing directly at his face. Alex's right foot digs into the dry floor as he uses his weight to launch himself through the cloud of dust, and onto the man in front of him. At the same time, he redirects the musket to the man on his side.

A gunshot rings out loud and clear across the land, a short scream does too when he quickly ends the life of the man he is straddling. Blood spurts from the wound dragged from one eye to another, Alex is hand is bathed in it but the grip on his knife is tighter than earlier. He hears somebody on his right gurgle liquid before falling with a bland 'thump.' Alex simply smirks when more dust had kicked up, the wind blowing it his way.

Fourteen left.

The tactic is repeated; one hand shovels a mixture of dirt and sand, throws it high in the sky so it falls back onto the ground as if a sandstorm had suddenly appeared. Alex leans while shifting to a stand towards the right where he has already seen the fallen body. The pokerface the other soldier wears is erased when the bayonet thrusted at him is stopped, and the man finds a rusty knife digging into his eye socket. He mutters 'another down' in French while watching the other lose consciousness from shock.

Adrenaline continues to pour into his body, he feels free.

Alex then switches to a crouch instead of being half-sprawled on the floor so he can keep low, and also use his left foot to press against his opponent's chest, kicking the body backward to pull the blade from where it is stuck. The man falls a few inches from the other. Ribbons of vivid stains his shoulder as he turns.

In a rush of desperate haste to survive, he turns his body so fast he could _feel_ his joints crack from the sudden exercise. There are another thirteen standing by King George, but Alex's mouth is watery with the desire to reduce the count to zero. The bodies should still be fresh when he's done; they could be used for a good dinner...

A bang fills Alex's ear as he narrowly avoids a bullet lodging itself into his head. There's probably a faint scratch on his ear now, except, the man that fired at him has a fist shoved into his mouth as payment; a grin tugs at his lips watching blood fill the space of where the man's front teeth used to be. Alex suddenly decides he is capable of handling a bayonet, fingers wrapping tightly at the handle of the tool, he pulls it off the musket with one strong tug and instead places it into the bleeding man's skull.

And then fear fills him.

Oh god he doesn't have enough time to bring up a cloud of dust to blind them or to move out of the line of fire when it's literally _four feet_ and in a musket away from lodging itself into his head.

Alex relents his grip on the end of the bayonet and grabs the dead soldier's hair. He is sure not to step on the edge. A round of shots of the nonalcoholic kind becomes apparent, by some lucky chance, the bullets that buried itself into the man's body does not go directly through. Not long does silence reign victorious for the split second people realize he isn't dead. Alex releases the corpse he used to shield himself with, and before they could begin loading their muskets again, he pounces like a hungry lion would.

Alex screams at the larger group of men in front of him while his knife silences the sounds one man was about to make. A pool of blood drowns his heel and the outer sole of his worn out shoes. There are splashes of drying red on his clothing to accompany the look. Quickly, he drags the blade from one man's throat across another man's face, the wound is deep enough for the other to faint to block out the pain of what would've been a messy death.

God, the possibility of dying is really taking the fun out of murder.

He does a recount; there are ten men left from what Alex can tell.

Switching his feet, Alex moves back a few feet and charges once more. The men fell down in an attempt to catch a fallen soldier, muskets either knocked out from their hand or in a position where they couldn't blast his face off immediately. His footsteps were messy at this point, but he didn't care. There was red on the floor and that was a good enough excuse. As they helped each other move the body to the side, Alex is in range to repeatedly stab a man in the chest after clutching somebody by their neck and plunging the tip of the rusted metal deep into his right ear, dragging it from the inside to the outside, to his left eye.

Alex counts.

Eight.

 _Eight_.

God he was great at murdering people.

Not wanting to be harmed any more than he'd like from being too close, he hurls a corpse at the remaining soldiers, turning on his heel several times, he finds himself searching for where the 'main boss' is. Then he finds him.

King George is leaning against the moss covered stone wall, eyes wide as if it'd help him absorb the walls of text in front of him. His nose was practically digging into the pages of Book I of Alexander's _thrilling_ series of "How To Survive The Aftermath of A Hurricane." Yet, there really was a flame of thrill that was apparent in George's eyes. He actually looked _interested_ in what contents the book held, and for some reason that makes Alex feel confused but also honored; somebody wants to read his vivid and gorey writing? Awesome, wow.

For five entire seconds, he falters and that is enough time for George to turn to face him.

Footsteps sputtering backward, Alex hears the click of a gun and he hurriedly throws himself forward, knife directed at the other's face. Unexpectedly, George dives forward with equal, maybe even more, speed and Alex feels someone grip his wrist. There was a minimal amount of pressure at first, just enough to stop his actions, except he still tried to shove it forward. The grip tightens considerably, and Alex lets out a small whine of pain, clenching his eyes shut before dropping the knife and pulling his hand back when the hand grabbing him lessens its hold.

He steps back. Another click.

At a closer glance, Alexander thinks this egotistically dressed prick is almost as attractive as his accent; at a closer glance, George William Frederick thinks this young, scrappy and blood-thirsty kid is ethereal in a literal..., "drop dead gorgeous" kind of way. A giant smile appears on George's face, he opens his mouth just in time to shout, " _Hold your fire!_ " right before his remaining men could end such a beautiful human being. Alex takes another step back as George jumps forward in rhythm, smile still present on his face and figure drawing closer until he was towering over the blood-soaked teen.

Then came the most life-threatening consequence he could have as payment for the bodies lying lifeless around him.

"I apologize, but I think you're more destructive than that hurricane because all you needed to do was look at me and I am dead at your feet," George kneels, taking Alex's hand and kissing it gently. Alexander flushes a brighter red than the newer splotches dying his clothing but is still too shocked to do anything. He watches the other stand up from the ground, and feels the weight of hands placing itself onto his shoulders despite the massacre behind them, "Come with me back to Britain, I'll take better care of you than anyone else."

Alex slowly nods, because: one, he is finally going to leave this shitty dump; two, what else is he supposed to do? If he refuses there's a 50% chance he'll get dragged along anyway, that or murdered. Alexander Hamilton, the boy who was apparently more destructive than a hurricane, is not going to die because he refused his chance to escape.

Although his fist does accidentally make contact with George's chest somewhere between the inappropriate sex jokes and shitty one liners.

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my rarepair. im suffering.
> 
> yKNOW THE FIGHT SCENE SOUNDS MORE LIKE AN ANIME SCENE BUT FUCK IT MAN, I'M A WEEB


End file.
